ann radcliffe - the mysteries of udolpho

7/30/2019 Ann Radcliffe - The Mysteries of Udolpho

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The Mysteries of UdolphoRadcliffe, Ann

Published:1794Categorie(s):Fiction, Mystery & Detective, Romance, GothicSource:http://www.gutenberg.org

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Part 1

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Chapter1Home is the resort Of love, of joy, of peace and plenty, where,Supporting and supported, polish'd friends And dear relationsmingle into bliss.

Thomson

On the pleasant banks of the Garonne, in the province of Gascony,stood, in the year 1584, the chateau of Monsieur St. Aubert. From its win-dows were seen the pastoral landscapes of Guienne and Gascony stretch-ing along the river, gay with luxuriant woods and vine, and plantationsof olives. To the south, the view was bounded by the majestic Pyrenees,whose summits, veiled in clouds, or exhibiting awful forms, seen, andlost again, as the partial vapours rolled along, were sometimes barren,

and gleamed through the blue tinge of air, and sometimes frowned withforests of gloomy pine, that swept downward to their base. These tre-mendous precipices were contrasted by the soft green of the pasturesand woods that hung upon their skirts; among whose flocks, and herds,and simple cottages, the eye, after having scaled the cliffs above, de-lighted to repose. To the north, and to the east, the plains of Guienne andLanguedoc were lost in the mist of distance; on the west, Gascony was

bounded by the waters of Biscay.M. St. Aubert loved to wander, with his wife and daughter, on the

margin of the Garonne, and to listen to the music that floated on itswaves. He had known life in other forms than those of pastoral simpli-city, having mingled in the gay and in the busy scenes of the world; butthe flattering portrait of mankind, which his heart had delineated inearly youth, his experience had too sorrowfully corrected. Yet, amidstthe changing visions of life, his principles remained unshaken, his bene-volence unchilled; and he retired from the multitude 'more in PITY thanin anger,' to scenes of simple nature, to the pure delights of literature,and to the exercise of domestic virtues.

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He was a descendant from the younger branch of an illustrious family,and it was designed, that the deficiency of his patrimonial wealth should

be supplied either by a splendid alliance in marriage, or by success in theintrigues of public affairs. But St. Aubert had too nice a sense of honour

to fulfil the latter hope, and too small a portion of ambition to sacrificewhat he called happiness, to the attainment of wealth. After the death ofhis father he married a very amiable woman, his equal in birth, and nothis superior in fortune. The late Monsieur St. Aubert's liberality, or extra-vagance, had so much involved his affairs, that his son found it neces-sary to dispose of a part of the family domain, and, some years after hismarriage, he sold it to Monsieur Quesnel, the brother of his wife, and re-tired to a small estate in Gascony, where conjugal felicity, and parentalduties, divided his attention with the treasures of knowledge and the il-

luminations of genius.To this spot he had been attached from his infancy. He had often made

excursions to it when a boy, and the impressions of delight given to hismind by the homely kindness of the grey-headed peasant, to whom itwas intrusted, and whose fruit and cream never failed, had not been ob-literated by succeeding circumstances. The green pastures along whichhe had so often bounded in the exultation of health, and youthful free-domthe woods, under whose refreshing shade he had first indulgedthat pensive melancholy, which afterwards made a strong feature of his

characterthe wild walks of the mountains, the river, on whose waveshe had floated, and the distant plains, which seemed boundless as hisearly hopeswere never after remembered by St. Aubert but with en-thusiasm and regret. At length he disengaged himself from the world,and retired hither, to realize the wishes of many years.

The building, as it then stood, was merely a summer cottage, renderedinteresting to a stranger by its neat simplicity, or the beauty of the sur-rounding scene; and considerable additions were necessary to make it acomfortable family residence. St. Aubert felt a kind of affection for everypart of the fabric, which he remembered in his youth, and would not suf-fer a stone of it to be removed, so that the new building, adapted to thestyle of the old one, formed with it only a simple and elegant residence.The taste of Madame St. Aubert was conspicuous in its internal finishing,where the same chaste simplicity was observable in the furniture, and inthe few ornaments of the apartments, that characterized the manners ofits inhabitants.

The library occupied the west side of the chateau, and was enriched bya collection of the best books in the ancient and modern languages. This

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room opened upon a grove, which stood on the brow of a gentle decliv-ity, that fell towards the river, and the tall trees gave it a melancholy andpleasing shade; while from the windows the eye caught, beneath thespreading branches, the gay and luxuriant landscape stretching to the

west, and overlooked on the left by the bold precipices of the Pyrenees.Adjoining the library was a green- house, stored with scarce and beauti-ful plants; for one of the amusements of St. Aubert was the study of bot-any, and among the neighbouring mountains, which afforded a luxuri-ous feast to the mind of the naturalist, he often passed the day in the pur-suit of his favourite science. He was sometimes accompanied in theselittle excursions by Madame St. Aubert, and frequently by his daughter;when, with a small osier basket to receive plants, and another filled withcold refreshments, such as the cabin of the shepherd did not afford, they

wandered away among the most romantic and magnificent scenes, norsuffered the charms of Nature's lowly children to abstract them from theobservance of her stupendous works. When weary of sauntering amongcliffs that seemed scarcely accessible but to the steps of the enthusiast,and where no track appeared on the vegetation, but what the foot of theizard had left; they would seek one of those green recesses, which so

beautifully adorn the bosom of these mountains, where, under the shadeof the lofty larch, or cedar, they enjoyed their simple repast, madesweeter by the waters of the cool stream, that crept along the turf, and by

the breath of wild flowers and aromatic plants, that fringed the rocks,and inlaid the grass.

Adjoining the eastern side of the green-house, looking towards theplains of Languedoc, was a room, which Emily called hers, and whichcontained her books, her drawings, her musical instruments, with somefavourite birds and plants. Here she usually exercised herself in elegantarts, cultivated only because they were congenial to her taste, and inwhich native genius, assisted by the instructions of Monsieur and Ma-dame St. Aubert, made her an early proficient. The windows of this roomwere particularly pleasant; they descended to the floor, and, openingupon the little lawn that surrounded the house, the eye was led betweengroves of almond, palm-trees, flowering-ash, and myrtle, to the distantlandscape, where the Garonne wandered.

The peasants of this gay climate were often seen on an evening, whenthe day's labour was done, dancing in groups on the margin of the river.Their sprightly melodies, debonnaire steps, the fanciful figure of theirdances, with the tasteful and capricious manner in which the girls adjus-ted their simple dress, gave a character to the scene entirely French.

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The front of the chateau, which, having a southern aspect, openedupon the grandeur of the mountains, was occupied on the ground floor

by a rustic hall, and two excellent sitting rooms. The first floor, for thecottage had no second story, was laid out in bed-chambers, except one

apartment that opened to a balcony, and which was generally used for abreakfast-room.

In the surrounding ground, St. Aubert had made very tasteful im-provements; yet, such was his attachment to objects he had rememberedfrom his boyish days, that he had in some instances sacrificed taste tosentiment. There were two old larches that shaded the building, and in-terrupted the prospect; St. Aubert had sometimes declared that he be-lieved he should have been weak enough to have wept at their fall. Inaddition to these larches he planted a little grove of beech, pine, and

mountain-ash. On a lofty terrace, formed by the swelling bank of theriver, rose a plantation of orange, lemon, and palm-trees, whose fruit, inthe coolness of evening, breathed delicious fragrance. With these weremingled a few trees of other species. Here, under the ample shade of aplane-tree, that spread its majestic canopy towards the river, St. Aubertloved to sit in the fine evenings of summer, with his wife and children,watching, beneath its foliage, the setting sun, the mild splendour of itslight fading from the distant landscape, till the shadows of twilightmelted its various features into one tint of sober grey. Here, too, he loved

to read, and to converse with Madame St. Aubert; or to play with hischildren, resigning himself to the influence of those sweet affections,which are ever attendant on simplicity and nature. He has often said,while tears of pleasure trembled in his eyes, that these were moments in-finitely more delightful than any passed amid the brilliant and tumultu-ous scenes that are courted by the world. His heart was occupied; it had,what can be so rarely said, no wish for a happiness beyond what it ex-perienced. The consciousness of acting right diffused a serenity over hismanners, which nothing else could impart to a man of moral perceptionslike his, and which refined his sense of every surrounding blessing.

The deepest shade of twilight did not send him from his favouriteplane-tree. He loved the soothing hour, when the last tints of light dieaway; when the stars, one by one, tremble through aether, and are reflec-ted on the dark mirror of the waters; that hour, which, of all others, in-spires the mind with pensive tenderness, and often elevates it to sublimecontemplation. When the moon shed her soft rays among the foliage, hestill lingered, and his pastoral supper of cream and fruits was often

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spread beneath it. Then, on the stillness of night, came the song of thenightingale, breathing sweetness, and awakening melancholy.

The first interruptions to the happiness he had known since his retire-ment, were occasioned by the death of his two sons. He lost them at that

age when infantine simplicity is so fascinating; and though, in considera-tion of Madame St. Aubert's distress, he restrained the expression of hisown, and endeavoured to bear it, as he meant, with philosophy, he had,in truth, no philosophy that could render him calm to such losses. Onedaughter was now his only surviving child; and, while he watched theunfolding of her infant character, with anxious fondness, he endeav-oured, with unremitting effort, to counteract those traits in her disposi-tion, which might hereafter lead her from happiness. She had discoveredin her early years uncommon delicacy of mind, warm affections, and

ready benevolence; but with these was observable a degree of susceptib-ility too exquisite to admit of lasting peace. As she advanced in youth,this sensibility gave a pensive tone to her spirits, and a softness to hermanner, which added grace to beauty, and rendered her a very interest-ing object to persons of a congenial disposition. But St. Aubert had toomuch good sense to prefer a charm to a virtue; and had penetrationenough to see, that this charm was too dangerous to its possessor to beallowed the character of a blessing. He endeavoured, therefore, tostrengthen her mind; to enure her to habits of self- command; to teach

her to reject the first impulse of her feelings, and to look, with cool exam-ination, upon the disappointments he sometimes threw in her way.While he instructed her to resist first impressions, and to acquire thatsteady dignity of mind, that can alone counterbalance the passions, and

bear us, as far as is compatible with our nature, above the reach of cir-cumstances, he taught himself a lesson of fortitude; for he was often ob-liged to witness, with seeming indifference, the tears and struggleswhich his caution occasioned her.

In person, Emily resembled her mother; having the same elegant sym-metry of form, the same delicacy of features, and the same blue eyes, fullof tender sweetness. But, lovely as was her person, it was the varied ex-pression of her countenance, as conversation awakened the nicer emo-tions of her mind, that threw such a captivating grace around her:

Those tend'rer tints, that shun the careless eye, And, in the world'scontagious circle, die.

St. Aubert cultivated her understanding with the most scrupulouscare. He gave her a general view of the sciences, and an exact acquaint-ance with every part of elegant literature. He taught her Latin and

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English, chiefly that she might understand the sublimity of their best po-ets. She discovered in her early years a taste for works of genius; and itwas St. Aubert's principle, as well as his inclination, to promote every in-nocent means of happiness. 'A well- informed mind,' he would say, 'is

the best security against the contagion of folly and of vice. The vacantmind is ever on the watch for relief, and ready to plunge into error, to es-cape from the languor of idleness. Store it with ideas, teach it the pleas-ure of thinking; and the temptations of the world without, will be coun-teracted by the gratifications derived from the world within. Thought,and cultivation, are necessary equally to the happiness of a country anda city life; in the first they prevent the uneasy sensations of indolence,and afford a sublime pleasure in the taste they create for the beautiful,and the grand; in the latter, they make dissipation less an object of neces-

sity, and consequently of interest.'It was one of Emily's earliest pleasures to ramble among the scenes of

nature; nor was it in the soft and glowing landscape that she most de-lighted; she loved more the wild wood-walks, that skirted the mountain;and still more the mountain's stupendous recesses, where the silence andgrandeur of solitude impressed a sacred awe upon her heart, and liftedher thoughts to the GOD OF HEAVEN AND EARTH. In scenes likethese she would often linger along, wrapt in a melancholy charm, till thelast gleam of day faded from the west; till the lonely sound of a sheep-

bell, or the distant bark of a watch-dog, were all that broke on the still-ness of the evening. Then, the gloom of the woods; the trembling of theirleaves, at intervals, in the breeze; the bat, flitting on the twilight; thecottage-lights, now seen, and now lostwere circumstances thatawakened her mind into effort, and led to enthusiasm and poetry.

Her favourite walk was to a little fishing-house, belonging to St.Aubert, in a woody glen, on the margin of a rivulet that descended fromthe Pyrenees, and, after foaming among their rocks, wound its silent way

beneath the shades it reflected. Above the woods, that screened this glen,rose the lofty summits of the Pyrenees, which often burst boldly on theeye through the glades below. Sometimes the shattered face of a rockonly was seen, crowned with wild shrubs; or a shepherd's cabin seatedon a cliff, overshadowed by dark cypress, or waving ash. Emerging fromthe deep recesses of the woods, the glade opened to the distant land-scape, where the rich pastures and vine-covered slopes of Gasconygradually declined to the plains; and there, on the winding shores of theGaronne, groves, and hamlets, and villastheir outlines softened by dis-tance, melted from the eye into one rich harmonious tint.

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This, too, was the favourite retreat of St. Aubert, to which he fre-quently withdrew from the fervour of noon, with his wife, his daughter,and his books; or came at the sweet evening hour to welcome the silentdusk, or to listen for the music of the nightingale. Sometimes, too, he

brought music of his own, and awakened every fairy echo with thetender accents of his oboe; and often have the tones of Emily's voicedrawn sweetness from the waves, over which they trembled.

It was in one of these excursions to this spot, that she observed the fol-lowing lines written with a pencil on a part of the wainscot:

SONNET

Go, pencil! faithful to thy master's sighs! Gotell the Goddess of the

fairy scene, When next her light steps wind these wood-walks green,Whence all his tears, his tender sorrows, rise; Ah! paint her form, hersoul-illumin'd eyes, The sweet expression of her pensive face, Thelight'ning smile, the animated grace The portrait well the lover's voicesupplies; Speaks all his heart must feel, his tongue would say: Yet ah! notall his heart must sadly feel! How oft the flow'ret's silken leaves concealThe drug that steals the vital spark away! And who that gazes on thatangel-smile, Would fear its charm, or think it could beguile!

These lines were not inscribed to any person; Emily therefore could

not apply them to herself, though she was undoubtedly the nymph ofthese shades. Having glanced round the little circle of her acquaintancewithout being detained by a suspicion as to whom they could be ad-dressed, she was compelled to rest in uncertainty; an uncertainty whichwould have been more painful to an idle mind than it was to hers. Shehad no leisure to suffer this circumstance, trifling at first, to swell intoimportance by frequent remembrance. The little vanity it had excited (forthe incertitude which forbade her to presume upon having inspired thesonnet, forbade her also to disbelieve it) passed away, and the incidentwas dismissed from her thoughts amid her books, her studies, and theexercise of social charities.

Soon after this period, her anxiety was awakened by the indispositionof her father, who was attacked with a fever; which, though not thoughtto be of a dangerous kind, gave a severe shock to his constitution. Ma-dame St. Aubert and Emily attended him with unremitting care; but hisrecovery was very slow, and, as he advanced towards health, Madameseemed to decline.

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The first scene he visited, after he was well enough to take the air, washis favourite fishing-house. A basket of provisions was sent thither, with

books, and Emily's lute; for fishing-tackle he had no use, for he nevercould find amusement in torturing or destroying.

After employing himself, for about an hour, in botanizing, dinner wasserved. It was a repast, to which gratitude, for being again permitted tovisit this spot, gave sweetness; and family happiness once more smiled

beneath these shades. Monsieur St. Aubert conversed with unusualcheerfulness; every object delighted his senses. The refreshing pleasurefrom the first view of nature, after the pain of illness, and the confine-ment of a sick-chamber, is above the conceptions, as well as the descrip-tions, of those in health. The green woods and pastures; the flowery turf;the blue concave of the heavens; the balmy air; the murmur of the limpid

stream; and even the hum of every little insect of the shade, seem to re-vivify the soul, and make mere existence bliss.

Madame St. Aubert, reanimated by the cheerfulness and recovery ofher husband, was no longer sensible of the indisposition which hadlately oppressed her; and, as she sauntered along the wood-walks of thisromantic glen, and conversed with him, and with her daughter, she oftenlooked at them alternately with a degree of tenderness, that filled hereyes with tears. St. Aubert observed this more than once, and gently re-proved her for the emotion; but she could only smile, clasp his hand, and

that of Emily, and weep the more. He felt the tender enthusiasm stealingupon himself in a degree that became almost painful; his features as-sumed a serious air, and he could not forbear secretly sighing'PerhapsI shall some time look back to these moments, as to the summit of myhappiness, with hopeless regret. But let me not misuse them by uselessanticipation; let me hope I shall not live to mourn the loss of those whoare dearer to me than life.'

To relieve, or perhaps to indulge, the pensive temper of his mind, hebade Emily fetch the lute she knew how to touch with such sweetpathos. As she drew near the fishing-house, she was surprised to hearthe tones of the instrument, which were awakened by the hand of taste,and uttered a plaintive air, whose exquisite melody engaged all her at-tention. She listened in profound silence, afraid to move from the spot,lest the sound of her steps should occasion her to lose a note of the mu-sic, or should disturb the musician. Every thing without the building wasstill, and no person appeared. She continued to listen, till timidity suc-ceeded to surprise and delight; a timidity, increased by a remembrance

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of the pencilled lines she had formerly seen, and she hesitated whetherto proceed, or to return.

While she paused, the music ceased; and, after a momentary hesita-tion, she re-collected courage to advance to the fishing-house, which she

entered with faltering steps, and found unoccupied! Her lute lay on thetable; every thing seemed undisturbed, and she began to believe it wasanother instrument she had heard, till she remembered, that, when shefollowed M. and Madame St. Aubert from this spot, her lute was left on awindow seat. She felt alarmed, yet knew not wherefore; the melancholygloom of evening, and the profound stillness of the place, interruptedonly by the light trembling of leaves, heightened her fanciful apprehen-sions, and she was desirous of quitting the building, but perceived her-self grow faint, and sat down. As she tried to recover herself, the pen-

cilled lines on the wainscot met her eye; she started, as if she had seen astranger; but, endeavouring to conquer the tremor of her spirits, rose,and went to the window. To the lines before noticed she now perceivedthat others were added, in which her name appeared.

Though no longer suffered to doubt that they were addressed to her-self, she was as ignorant, as before, by whom they could be written.While she mused, she thought she heard the sound of a step without the

building, and again alarmed, she caught up her lute, and hurried away.Monsieur and Madame St. Aubert she found in a little path that wound

along the sides of the glen.Having reached a green summit, shadowed by palm-trees, and over-

looking the vallies and plains of Gascony, they seated themselves on theturf; and while their eyes wandered over the glorious scene, and they in-haled the sweet breath of flowers and herbs that enriched the grass,Emily played and sung several of their favourite airs, with the delicacyof expression in which she so much excelled.

Music and conversation detained them in this enchanting spot, till thesun's last light slept upon the plains; till the white sails that glided be-neath the mountains, where the Garonne wandered, became dim, andthe gloom of evening stole over the landscape. It was a melancholy butnot unpleasing gloom. St. Aubert and his family rose, and left the placewith regret; alas! Madame St. Aubert knew not that she left it for ever.

When they reached the fishing-house she missed her bracelet, and re-collected that she had taken it from her arm after dinner, and had left iton the table when she went to walk. After a long search, in which Emilywas very active, she was compelled to resign herself to the loss of it.What made this bracelet valuable to her was a miniature of her daughter

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to which it was attached, esteemed a striking resemblance, and whichhad been painted only a few months before. When Emily was convincedthat the bracelet was really gone, she blushed, and became thoughtful.That some stranger had been in the fishing-house, during her absence,

her lute, and the additional lines of a pencil, had already informed her:from the purport of these lines it was not unreasonable to believe, thatthe poet, the musician, and the thief were the same person. But thoughthe music she had heard, the written lines she had seen, and the disap-pearance of the picture, formed a combination of circumstances very re-markable, she was irresistibly restrained from mentioning them; secretlydetermining, however, never again to visit the fishing-house withoutMonsieur or Madame St. Aubert.

They returned pensively to the chateau, Emily musing on the incident

which had just occurred; St. Aubert reflecting, with placid gratitude, onthe blessings he possessed; and Madame St. Aubert somewhat disturbed,and perplexed, by the loss of her daughter's picture. As they drew nearthe house, they observed an unusual bustle about it; the sound of voiceswas distinctly heard, servants and horses were seen passing between thetrees, and, at length, the wheels of a carriage rolled along. Having comewithin view of the front of the chateau, a landau, with smoking horses,appeared on the little lawn before it. St. Aubert perceived the liveries ofhis brother-in-law, and in the parlour he found Monsieur and Madame

Quesnel already entered. They had left Paris some days before, and wereon the way to their estate, only ten leagues distant from La Vallee, andwhich Monsieur Quesnel had purchased several years before of St.Aubert. This gentleman was the only brother of Madame St. Aubert; butthe ties of relationship having never been strengthened by congenialityof character, the intercourse between them had not been frequent. M.Quesnel had lived altogether in the world; his aim had been con-sequence; splendour was the object of his taste; and his address andknowledge of character had carried him forward to the attainment of al-most all that he had courted. By a man of such a disposition, it is not sur-prising that the virtues of St. Aubert should be overlooked; or that hispure taste, simplicity, and moderated wishes, were considered as marksof a weak intellect, and of confined views. The marriage of his sister withSt. Aubert had been mortifying to his ambition, for he had designed thatthe matrimonial connection she formed should assist him to attain theconsequence which he so much desired; and some offers were made her

by persons whose rank and fortune flattered his warmest hope. But hissister, who was then addressed also by St. Aubert, perceived, or thought

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she perceived, that happiness and splendour were not the same, and shedid not hesitate to forego the last for the attainment of the former.Whether Monsieur Quesnel thought them the same, or not, he wouldreadily have sacrificed his sister's peace to the gratification of his own

ambition; and, on her marriage with St. Aubert, expressed in private hiscontempt of her spiritless conduct, and of the connection which it per-mitted. Madame St. Aubert, though she concealed this insult from herhusband, felt, perhaps, for the first time, resentment lighted in her heart;and, though a regard for her own dignity, united with considerations ofprudence, restrained her expression of this resentment, there was everafter a mild reserve in her manner towards M. Quesnel, which he bothunderstood and felt.

In his own marriage he did not follow his sister's example. His lady

was an Italian, and an heiress by birth; and, by nature and education,was a vain and frivolous woman.

They now determined to pass the night with St. Aubert; and as thechateau was not large enough to accommodate their servants, the latterwere dismissed to the neighbouring village. When the first complimentswere over, and the arrangements for the night made M. Quesnel beganthe display of his intelligence and his connections; while St. Aubert, whohad been long enough in retirement to find these topics recommended

by their novelty, listened, with a degree of patience and attention, which

his guest mistook for the humility of wonder. The latter, indeed, de-scribed the few festivities which the turbulence of that period permittedto the court of Henry the Third, with a minuteness, that somewhat re-compensed for his ostentation; but, when he came to speak of the charac-ter of the Duke de Joyeuse, of a secret treaty, which he knew to be nego-tiating with the Porte, and of the light in which Henry of Navarre was re-ceived, M. St. Aubert recollected enough of his former experience to beassured, that his guest could be only of an inferior class of politicians;and that, from the importance of the subjects upon which he committedhimself, he could not be of the rank to which he pretended to belong.The opinions delivered by M. Quesnel, were such as St. Aubert foreboreto reply to, for he knew that his guest had neither humanity to feel, nordiscernment to perceive, what is just.

Madame Quesnel, meanwhile, was expressing to Madame St. Auberther astonishment, that she could bear to pass her life in this remotecorner of the world, as she called it, and describing, from a wish, prob-ably, of exciting envy, the splendour of the balls, banquets, and proces-sions which had just been given by the court, in honour of the nuptials of

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the Duke de Joyeuse with Margaretta of Lorrain, the sister of the Queen.She described with equal minuteness the magnificence she had seen, andthat from which she had been excluded; while Emily's vivid fancy, as shelistened with the ardent curiosity of youth, heightened the scenes she

heard of; and Madame St. Aubert, looking on her family, felt, as a tearstole to her eye, that though splendour may grace happiness, virtue onlycan bestow it.

'It is now twelve years, St. Aubert,' said M. Quesnel, 'since I purchasedyour family estate.''Somewhere thereabout,' replied St. Aubert, sup-pressing a sigh. 'It is near five years since I have been there,' resumedQuesnel; 'for Paris and its neighbourhood is the only place in the worldto live in, and I am so immersed in politics, and have so many affairs ofmoment on my hands, that I find it difficult to steal away even for a

month or two.' St. Aubert remaining silent, M. Quesnel proceeded: 'Ihave sometimes wondered how you, who have lived in the capital, andhave been accustomed to company, can exist elsewhere;especially inso remote a country as this, where you can neither hear nor see anything, and can in short be scarcely conscious of life.'

'I live for my family and myself,' said St. Aubert; 'I am now contentedto know only happiness;formerly I knew life.'

'I mean to expend thirty or forty thousand livres on improvements,'said M. Quesnel, without seeming to notice the words of St. Aubert; 'for I

design, next summer, to bring here my friends, the Duke de Durefortand the Marquis Ramont, to pass a month or two with me.' To St.Aubert's enquiry, as to these intended improvements, he replied, that heshould take down the whole east wing of the chateau, and raise upon thesite a set of stables. 'Then I shall build,' said he, 'a SALLE A MANGER, aSALON, a SALLE AU COMMUNE, and a number of rooms for servants;for at present there is not accommodation for a third part of my ownpeople.'

'It accommodated our father's household,' said St. Aubert, grieved thatthe old mansion was to be thus improved, 'and that was not a small one.'

'Our notions are somewhat enlarged since those days,' said M. Ques-nel;'what was then thought a decent style of living would not now beendured.' Even the calm St. Aubert blushed at these words, but his angersoon yielded to contempt. 'The ground about the chateau is encumberedwith trees; I mean to cut some of them down.'

'Cut down the trees too!' said St. Aubert.'Certainly. Why should I not? they interrupt my prospects. There is a

chesnut which spreads its branches before the whole south side of the

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chateau, and which is so ancient that they tell me the hollow of its trunkwill hold a dozen men. Your enthusiasm will scarcely contend that therecan be either use, or beauty, in such a sapless old tree as this.'

'Good God!' exclaimed St. Aubert, 'you surely will not destroy that

noble chesnut, which has flourished for centuries, the glory of the estate!It was in its maturity when the present mansion was built. How often, inmy youth, have I climbed among its broad branches, and sat emboweredamidst a world of leaves, while the heavy shower has pattered above,and not a rain drop reached me! How often I have sat with a book in myhand, sometimes reading, and sometimes looking out between the

branches upon the wide landscape, and the setting sun, till twilightcame, and brought the birds home to their little nests among the leaves!How oftenbut pardon me,' added St. Aubert, recollecting that he was

speaking to a man who could neither comprehend, nor allow his feel-ings, 'I am talking of times and feelings as old-fashioned as the taste thatwould spare that venerable tree.'

'It will certainly come down,' said M. Quesnel; 'I believe I shall plantsome Lombardy poplars among the clumps of chesnut, that I shall leaveof the avenue; Madame Quesnel is partial to the poplar, and tells mehow much it adorns a villa of her uncle, not far from Venice.'

'On the banks of the Brenta, indeed,' continued St. Aubert, 'where itsspiry form is intermingled with the pine, and the cypress, and where it

plays over light and elegant porticos and colonnades, it, unquestionably,adorns the scene; but among the giants of the forest, and near a heavygothic mansion'

'Well, my good sir,' said M. Quesnel, 'I will not dispute with you. Youmust return to Paris before our ideas can at all agree. But A- PROPOS ofVenice, I have some thoughts of going thither, next summer; events maycall me to take possession of that same villa, too, which they tell me is themost charming that can be imagined. In that case I shall leave the im-provements I mention to another year, and I may, perhaps, be temptedto stay some time in Italy.'

Emily was somewhat surprised to hear him talk of being tempted toremain abroad, after he had mentioned his presence to be so necessary atParis, that it was with difficulty he could steal away for a month or two;

but St. Aubert understood the self-importance of the man too well towonder at this trait; and the possibility, that these projected improve-ments might be deferred, gave him a hope, that they might never takeplace.

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Before they separated for the night, M. Quesnel desired to speak withSt. Aubert alone, and they retired to another room, where they remaineda considerable time. The subject of this conversation was not known; but,whatever it might be, St. Aubert, when he returned to the supper-room,

seemed much disturbed, and a shade of sorrow sometimes fell upon hisfeatures that alarmed Madame St. Aubert. When they were alone shewas tempted to enquire the occasion of it, but the delicacy of mind,which had ever appeared in his conduct, restrained her: she consideredthat, if St. Aubert wished her to be acquainted with the subject of his con-cern, he would not wait on her enquiries.

On the following day, before M. Quesnel departed, he had a secondconference with St. Aubert.

The guests, after dining at the chateau, set out in the cool of the day for

Epourville, whither they gave him and Madame St. Aubert a pressing in-vitation, prompted rather by the vanity of displaying their splendour,than by a wish to make their friends happy.

Emily returned, with delight, to the liberty which their presence hadrestrained, to her books, her walks, and the rational conversation of M.and Madame St. Aubert, who seemed to rejoice, no less, that they weredelivered from the shackles, which arrogance and frivolity had imposed.

Madame St. Aubert excused herself from sharing their usual eveningwalk, complaining that she was not quite well, and St. Aubert and Emily

went out together.They chose a walk towards the mountains, intending to visit some old

pensioners of St. Aubert, which, from his very moderate income, he con-trived to support, though it is probable M. Quesnel, with his very largeone, could not have afforded this.

After distributing to his pensioners their weekly stipends, listening pa-tiently to the complaints of some, redressing the grievances of others,and softening the discontents of all, by the look of sympathy, and thesmile of benevolence, St. Aubert returned home through the woods,

where At fall of eve the fairy-people throng, In various games and rev-elry to pass The summer night, as village stories tell.1 'The eveninggloom of woods was always delightful to me,' said St. Aubert, whosemind now experienced the sweet calm, which results from the conscious-ness of having done a beneficent action, and which disposes it to receivepleasure from every surrounding object. 'I remember that in my youththis gloom used to call forth to my fancy a thousand fairy visions, andromantic images; and, I own, I am not yet wholly insensible of that high

1.Thomson

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enthusiasm, which wakes the poet's dream: I can linger, with solemnsteps, under the deep shades, send forward a transforming eye into thedistant obscurity, and listen with thrilling delight to the mystic murmur-ing of the woods.' 'O my dear father,' said Emily, while a sudden tear

started to her eye, 'how exactly you describe what I have felt so often,and which I thought nobody had ever felt but myself! But hark! herecomes the sweeping sound over the wood-tops;now it diesaway;how solemn the stillness that succeeds! Now the breeze swellsagain. It is like the voice of some supernatural beingthe voice of thespirit of the woods, that watches over them by night. Ah! what light isyonder? But it is gone. And now it gleams again, near the root of thatlarge chestnut: look, sir!' 'Are you such an admirer of nature,' said St.Aubert, 'and so little acquainted with her appearances as not to know

that for the glow- worm? But come,' added he gaily, 'step a little further,and we shall see fairies, perhaps; they are often companions. The glow-worm lends his light, and they in return charm him with music, and thedance. Do you see nothing tripping yonder?' Emily laughed. 'Well, mydear sir,' said she, 'since you allow of this alliance, I may venture to ownI have anticipated you; and almost dare venture to repeat some verses Imade one evening in these very woods.' 'Nay,' replied St. Aubert,'dismiss the ALMOST, and venture quite; let us hear what vagaries fancyhas been playing in your mind. If she has given you one of her spells,

you need not envy those of the fairies.' 'If it is strong enough to enchantyour judgment, sir,' said Emily, 'while I disclose her images, I need NOTenvy them. The lines go in a sort of tripping measure, which I thoughtmight suit the subject well enough, but I fear they are too irregular.'THE GLOW-WORMHow pleasant is the green-wood's deep-matted shade On a mid-summer's eve, when the fresh rain is o'er; When the yellow beams slope,and sparkle thro' the glade, And swiftly in the thin air the light swallowssoar! But sweeter, sweeter still, when the sun sinks to rest, And twilightcomes on, with the fairies so gay Tripping through the forest-walk,where flow'rs, unprest, Bow not their tall heads beneath their frolic play.To music's softest sounds they dance away the hour, Till moon-lightsteals down among the trembling leaves, And checquers all the ground,and guides them to the bow'r, The long haunted bow'r, where the night-ingale grieves. Then no more they dance, till her sad song is done, But,silent as the night, to her mourning attend; And often as her dying notestheir pity have won, They vow all her sacred haunts from mortals to de-fend. When, down among the mountains, sinks the ev'ning star, And the

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changing moon forsakes this shadowy sphere, How cheerless wouldthey be, tho' they fairies are, If I, with my pale light, came not near! Yetcheerless tho' they'd be, they're ungrateful to my love! For, often whenthe traveller's benighted on his way, And I glimmer in his path, and

would guide him thro' the grove, They bind me in their magic spells tolead him far astray; And in the mire to leave him, till the stars are all

burnt out, While, in strange-looking shapes, they frisk about the ground,And, afar in the woods, they raise a dismal shout, Till I shrink into mycell again for terror of the sound! But, see where all the tiny elves comedancing in a ring, With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and thehorn, And the timbrel so clear, and the lute with dulcet string; Thenround about the oak they go till peeping of the morn. Down yonderglade two lovers steal, to shun the fairy-queen, Who frowns upon their

plighted vows, and jealous is of me, That yester-eve I lighted them, alongthe dewy green, To seek the purple flow'r, whose juice from all her spellscan free. And now, to punish me, she keeps afar her jocund band, Withthe merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the lute; If I creep near yonderoak she will wave her fairy wand, And to me the dance will cease, andthe music all be mute. O! had I but that purple flow'r whose leaves hercharms can foil, And knew like fays to draw the juice, and throw it onthe wind, I'd be her slave no longer, nor the traveller beguile, And helpall faithful lovers, nor fear the fairy kind! But soon the VAPOUR OF THE

WOODS will wander afar, And the fickle moon will fade, and the starsdisappear, Then, cheerless will they be, tho' they fairies are, If I, with mypale light, come not near! Whatever St. Aubert might think of the stan-zas, he would not deny his daughter the pleasure of believing that he ap-proved them; and, having given his commendation, he sunk into a rever-ie, and they walked on in silence. A faint erroneous ray Glanc'd from th'imperfect surfaces of things, Flung half an image on the straining eye;While waving woods, and villages, and streams, And rocks, andmountain-tops, that long retain The ascending gleam, are all one swim-ming scene, Uncertain if beheld.* *Thomson. St. Aubert continued silenttill he reached the chateau, where his wife had retired to her chamber.The languor and dejection, that had lately oppressed her, and which theexertion called forth by the arrival of her guests had suspended, now re-turned with increased effect. On the following day, symptoms of feverappeared, and St. Aubert, having sent for medical advice, learned, thather disorder was a fever of the same nature as that, from which he hadlately recovered. She had, indeed, taken the infection, during her attend-ance upon him, and, her constitution being too weak to throw out the

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disease immediately, it had lurked in her veins, and occasioned theheavy languor of which she had complained. St. Aubert, whose anxietyfor his wife overcame every other consideration, detained the physicianin his house. He remembered the feelings and the reflections that had

called a momentary gloom upon his mind, on the day when he had lastvisited the fishing-house, in company with Madame St. Aubert, and henow admitted a presentiment, that this illness would be a fatal one. Buthe effectually concealed this from her, and from his daughter, whom heendeavoured to re-animate with hopes that her constant assiduitieswould not be unavailing. The physician, when asked by St. Aubert forhis opinion of the disorder, replied, that the event of it depended uponcircumstances which he could not ascertain. Madame St. Aubert seemedto have formed a more decided one; but her eyes only gave hints of this.

She frequently fixed them upon her anxious friends with an expressionof pity, and of tenderness, as if she anticipated the sorrow that awaitedthem, and that seemed to say, it was for their sakes only, for their suffer-ings, that she regretted life. On the seventh day, the disorder was at itscrisis. The physician assumed a graver manner, which she observed, andtook occasion, when her family had once quitted the chamber, to tellhim, that she perceived her death was approaching. 'Do not attempt todeceive me,' said she, 'I feel that I cannot long survive. I am prepared forthe event, I have long, I hope, been preparing for it. Since I have not long

to live, do not suffer a mistaken compassion to induce you to flatter myfamily with false hopes. If you do, their affliction will only be the heavierwhen it arrives: I will endeavour to teach them resignation by my ex-ample.' The physician was affected; he promised to obey her, and told St.Aubert, somewhat abruptly, that there was nothing to expect. The latterwas not philosopher enough to restrain his feelings when he receivedthis information; but a consideration of the increased affliction which theobservance of his grief would occasion his wife, enabled him, after sometime, to command himself in her presence. Emily was at first over-whelmed with the intelligence; then, deluded by the strength of herwishes, a hope sprung up in her mind that her mother would yet recov-er, and to this she pertinaciously adhered almost to the last hour. Theprogress of this disorder was marked, on the side of Madame St. Aubert,

by patient suffering, and subjected wishes. The composure, with whichshe awaited her death, could be derived only from the retrospect of a lifegoverned, as far as human frailty permits, by a consciousness of being al-ways in the presence of the Deity, and by the hope of a higher world. Buther piety could not entirely subdue the grief of parting from those whom

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she so dearly loved. During these her last hours, she conversed muchwith St. Aubert and Emily, on the prospect of futurity, and on other reli-gious topics. The resignation she expressed, with the firm hope of meet-ing in a future world the friends she left in this, and the effort which

sometimes appeared to conceal her sorrow at this temporary separation,frequently affected St. Aubert so much as to oblige him to leave theroom. Having indulged his tears awhile, he would dry them and returnto the chamber with a countenance composed by an endeavour whichdid but increase his grief. Never had Emily felt the importance of the les-sons, which had taught her to restrain her sensibility, so much as in thesemoments, and never had she practised them with a triumph so complete.But when the last was over, she sunk at once under the pressure of hersorrow, and then perceived that it was hope, as well as fortitude, which

had hitherto supported her. St. Aubert was for a time too devoid of com-fort himself to bestow any on his daughter.

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Chapter2I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word Would harrow up thysoul.SHAKESPEARE

Madame St. Aubert was interred in the neighbouring village church;her husband and daughter attended her to the grave, followed by a longtrain of the peasantry, who were sincere mourners of this excellentwoman.

On his return from the funeral, St. Aubert shut himself in his chamber.When he came forth, it was with a serene countenance, though pale insorrow. He gave orders that his family should attend him. Emily onlywas absent; who, overcome with the scene she had just witnessed, had

retired to her closet to weep alone. St. Aubert followed her thither: hetook her hand in silence, while she continued to weep; and it was somemoments before he could so far command his voice as to speak. Ittrembled while he said, 'My Emily, I am going to prayers with my fam-ily; you will join us. We must ask support from above. Where else oughtwe to seek itwhere else can we find it?'

Emily checked her tears, and followed her father to the parlour, where,the servants being assembled, St. Aubert read, in a low and solemnvoice, the evening service, and added a prayer for the soul of the depar-

ted. During this, his voice often faltered, his tears fell upon the book, andat length he paused. But the sublime emotions of pure devotion gradu-ally elevated his views above this world, and finally brought comfort tohis heart.

When the service was ended, and the servants were withdrawn, hetenderly kissed Emily, and said, 'I have endeavoured to teach you, fromyour earliest youth, the duty of self-command; I have pointed out to youthe great importance of it through life, not only as it preserves us in thevarious and dangerous temptations that call us from rectitude and vir-

tue, but as it limits the indulgences which are termed virtuous, yet

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which, extended beyond a certain boundary, are vicious, for their con-sequence is evil. All excess is vicious; even that sorrow, which is amiablein its origin, becomes a selfish and unjust passion, if indulged at the ex-pence of our dutiesby our duties I mean what we owe to ourselves, as

well as to others. The indulgence of excessive grief enervates the mind,and almost incapacitates it for again partaking of those various innocentenjoyments which a benevolent God designed to be the sun-shine of ourlives. My dear Emily, recollect and practise the precepts I have so oftengiven you, and which your own experience has so often shewn you to bewise.

'Your sorrow is useless. Do not receive this as merely a commonplaceremark, but let reason THEREFORE restrain sorrow. I would not annihil-ate your feelings, my child, I would only teach you to command them;

for whatever may be the evils resulting from a too susceptible heart,nothing can be hoped from an insensible one; that, on the other hand, isall vicevice, of which the deformity is not softened, or the effect con-soled for, by any semblance or possibility of good. You know my suffer-ings, and are, therefore, convinced that mine are not the light wordswhich, on these occasions, are so often repeated to destroy even thesources of honest emotion, or which merely display the selfish ostenta-tion of a false philosophy. I will shew my Emily, that I can practise whatI advise. I have said thus much, because I cannot bear to see you wasting

in useless sorrow, for want of that resistance which is due from mind;and I have not said it till now, because there is a period when all reason-ing must yield to nature; that is past: and another, when excessive indul-gence, having sunk into habit, weighs down the elasticity of the spirits soas to render conquest nearly impossible; this is to come. You, my Emily,will shew that you are willing to avoid it.'

Emily smiled through her tears upon her father: 'Dear sir,' said she,and her voice trembled; she would have added, 'I will shew myselfworthy of being your daughter;' but a mingled emotion of gratitude, af-fection, and grief overcame her. St. Aubert suffered her to weep withoutinterruption, and then began to talk on common topics.

The first person who came to condole with St. Aubert was a M. Barr-eaux, an austere and seemingly unfeeling man. A taste for botany had in-troduced them to each other, for they had frequently met in their wan-derings among the mountains. M. Barreaux had retired from the world,and almost from society, to live in a pleasant chateau, on the skirts of thewoods, near La Vallee. He also had been disappointed in his opinion of

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mankind; but he did not, like St. Aubert, pity and mourn for them; he feltmore indignation at their vices, than compassion for their weaknesses.

St. Aubert was somewhat surprised to see him; for, though he had of-ten pressed him to come to the chateau, he had never till now accepted

the invitation; and now he came without ceremony or reserve, enteringthe parlour as an old friend. The claims of misfortune appeared to havesoftened down all the ruggedness and prejudices of his heart. St. Aubertunhappy, seemed to be the sole idea that occupied his mind. It was inmanners, more than in words, that he appeared to sympathize with hisfriends: he spoke little on the subject of their grief; but the minute atten-tion he gave them, and the modulated voice, and softened look that ac-companied it, came from his heart, and spoke to theirs.

At this melancholy period St. Aubert was likewise visited by Madame

Cheron, his only surviving sister, who had been some years a widow,and now resided on her own estate near Tholouse. The intercourse

between them had not been very frequent. In her condolements, wordswere not wanting; she understood not the magic of the look that speaksat once to the soul, or the voice that sinks like balm to the heart: but sheassured St. Aubert that she sincerely sympathized with him, praised thevirtues of his late wife, and then offered what she considered to be con-solation. Emily wept unceasingly while she spoke; St. Aubert was tran-quil, listened to what she said in silence, and then turned the discourse

upon another subject.At parting she pressed him and her niece to make her an early visit.

'Change of place will amuse you,' said she, 'and it is wrong to give wayto grief.' St. Aubert acknowledged the truth of these words of course;

but, at the same time, felt more reluctant than ever to quit the spot whichhis past happiness had consecrated. The presence of his wife had sancti-fied every surrounding scene, and, each day, as it gradually softened theacuteness of his suffering, assisted the tender enchantment that boundhim to home.

But there were calls which must be complied with, and of this kindwas the visit he paid to his brother-in-law M. Quesnel. An affair of an in-teresting nature made it necessary that he should delay this visit nolonger, and, wishing to rouse Emily from her dejection, he took her withhim to Epourville.

As the carriage entered upon the forest that adjoined his paternal do-main, his eyes once more caught, between the chesnut avenue, the tur-reted corners of the chateau. He sighed to think of what had passed sincehe was last there, and that it was now the property of a man who neither

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Among the visitors assembled at dinner were two Italian gentlemen,of whom one was named Montoni, a distant relation of Madame Ques-nel, a man about forty, of an uncommonly handsome person, with fea-tures manly and expressive, but whose countenance exhibited, upon the

whole, more of the haughtiness of command, and the quickness of dis-cernment, than of any other character.

Signor Cavigni, his friend, appeared to be about thirtyinferior indignity, but equal to him in penetration of countenance, and superior ininsinuation of manner.

Emily was shocked by the salutation with which Madame Cheron mether father'Dear brother,' said she, 'I am concerned to see you look sovery ill; do, pray, have advice!' St. Aubert answered, with a melancholysmile, that he felt himself much as usual; but Emily's fears made her now

fancy that her father looked worse than he really did.Emily would have been amused by the new characters she saw, and

the varied conversation that passed during dinner, which was served ina style of splendour she had seldom seen before, had her spirits been lessoppressed. Of the guests, Signor Montoni was lately come from Italy,and he spoke of the commotions which at that period agitated the coun-try; talked of party differences with warmth, and then lamented theprobable consequences of the tumults. His friend spoke with equal ar-dour, of the politics of his country; praised the government and prosper-

ity of Venice, and boasted of its decided superiority over all the otherItalian states. He then turned to the ladies, and talked with the same elo-quence, of Parisian fashions, the French opera, and French manners; andon the latter subject he did not fail to mingle what is so particularlyagreeable to French taste. The flattery was not detected by those towhom it was addressed, though its effect, in producing submissive atten-tion, did not escape his observation. When he could disengage himselffrom the assiduities of the other ladies, he sometimes addressed Emily:

but she knew nothing of Parisian fashions, or Parisian operas; and hermodesty, simplicity, and correct manners formed a decided contrast tothose of her female companions.

After dinner, St. Aubert stole from the room to view once more the oldchesnut which Quesnel talked of cutting down. As he stood under itsshade, and looked up among its branches, still luxuriant, and saw hereand there the blue sky trembling between them; the pursuits and eventsof his early days crowded fast to his mind, with the figures and charac-ters of friendslong since gone from the earth; and he now felt himself

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to be almost an insulated being, with nobody but his Emily for his heartto turn to.

He stood lost amid the scenes of years which fancy called up, till thesuccession closed with the picture of his dying wife, and he started

away, to forget it, if possible, at the social board.St. Aubert ordered his carriage at an early hour, and Emily observed,

that he was more than usually silent and dejected on the way home; butshe considered this to be the effect of his visit to a place which spoke soeloquently of former times, nor suspected that he had a cause of griefwhich he concealed from her.

On entering the chateau she felt more depressed than ever, for shemore than ever missed the presence of that dear parent, who, whenevershe had been from home, used to welcome her return with smiles and

fondness; now, all was silent and forsaken.But what reason and effort may fail to do, time effects. Week after

week passed away, and each, as it passed, stole something from theharshness of her affliction, till it was mellowed to that tenderness whichthe feeling heart cherishes as sacred. St. Aubert, on the contrary, visiblydeclined in health; though Emily, who had been so constantly with him,was almost the last person who observed it. His constitution had neverrecovered from the late attack of the fever, and the succeeding shock itreceived from Madame St. Aubert's death had produced its present in-

firmity. His physician now ordered him to travel; for it was perceptiblethat sorrow had seized upon his nerves, weakened as they had been bythe preceding illness; and variety of scene, it was probable, would, byamusing his mind, restore them to their proper tone.

For some days Emily was occupied in preparations to attend him; andhe, by endeavours to diminish his expences at home during the jour-neya purpose which determined him at length to dismiss his domest-ics. Emily seldom opposed her father's wishes by questions or remon-strances, or she would now have asked why he did not take a servant,and have represented that his infirm health made one almost necessary.But when, on the eve of their departure, she found that he had dismissed

Jacques, Francis, and Mary, and detained only Theresa the old house-keeper, she was extremely surprised, and ventured to ask his reason forhaving done so. 'To save expences, my dear,' he replied'we are goingon an expensive excursion.'

The physician had prescribed the air of Languedoc and Provence; andSt. Aubert determined, therefore, to travel leisurely along the shores ofthe Mediterranean, towards Provence.

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They retired early to their chamber on the night before their departure;but Emily had a few books and other things to collect, and the clock hadstruck twelve before she had finished, or had remembered that some ofher drawing instruments, which she meant to take with her, were in the

parlour below. As she went to fetch these, she passed her father's room,and, perceiving the door half open, concluded that he was in hisstudyfor, since the death of Madame St. Aubert, it had been frequentlyhis custom to rise from his restless bed, and go thither to compose hismind. When she was below stairs she looked into this room, but withoutfinding him; and as she returned to her chamber, she tapped at his door,and receiving no answer, stepped softly in, to be certain whether he wasthere.

The room was dark, but a light glimmered through some panes of

glass that were placed in the upper part of a closet-door. Emily believedher father to be in the closet, and, surprised that he was up at so late anhour, apprehended he was unwell, and was going to enquire; but, con-sidering that her sudden appearance at this hour might alarm him, sheremoved her light to the stair-case, and then stepped softly to the closet.On looking through the panes of glass, she saw him seated at a smalltable, with papers before him, some of which he was reading with deepattention and interest, during which he often wept and sobbed aloud.Emily, who had come to the door to learn whether her father was ill, was

now detained there by a mixture of curiosity and tenderness. She couldnot witness his sorrow, without being anxious to know the subject of;and she therefore continued to observe him in silence, concluding thatthose papers were letters of her late mother. Presently he knelt down,and with a look so solemn as she had seldom seen him assume, andwhich was mingled with a certain wild expression, that partook more ofhorror than of any other character, he prayed silently for a considerabletime.

When he rose, a ghastly paleness was on his countenance. Emily washastily retiring; but she saw him turn again to the papers, and shestopped. He took from among them a small case, and from thence aminiature picture. The rays of light fell strongly upon it, and she per-ceived it to be that of a lady, but not of her mother.

St. Aubert gazed earnestly and tenderly upon his portrait, put it to hislips, and then to his heart, and sighed with a convulsive force. Emilycould scarcely believe what she saw to be real. She never knew till nowthat he had a picture of any other lady than her mother, much less thathe had one which he evidently valued so highly; but having looked

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repeatedly, to be certain that it was not the resemblance of Madame St.Aubert, she became entirely convinced that it was designed for that ofsome other person.

At length St. Aubert returned the picture to its case; and Emily, recol-

lecting that she was intruding upon his private sorrows, softly withdrewfrom the chamber.

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Chapter3O how canst thou renounce the boundless store Of charms whichnature to her vot'ry yields! The warbling woodland, the resound-ing shore, The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields; All that

the genial ray of morning gilds, And all that echoes to the song ofeven; All that the mountain's shelt'ring bosom shields, And all thedread magnificence of heaven; O how canst thou renounce, andhope to be forgiven! . . These charms shall work thy soul'seternal health, And love, and gentleness, and joy, impart.THE MINSTREL

St. Aubert, instead of taking the more direct road, that ran along thefeet of the Pyrenees to Languedoc, chose one that, winding over the

heights, afforded more extensive views and greater variety of romanticscenery. He turned a little out of his way to take leave of M. Barreaux,whom he found botanizing in the wood near his chateau, and who,when he was told the purpose of St. Aubert's visit, expressed a degree ofconcern, such as his friend had thought it was scarcely possible for himto feel on any similar occasion. They parted with mutual regret.

'If any thing could have tempted me from my retirement,' said M. Bar-reaux, 'it would have been the pleasure of accompanying you on thislittle tour. I do not often offer compliments; you may, therefore, believe

me, when I say, that I shall look for your return with impatience.'The travellers proceeded on their journey. As they ascended the

heights, St. Aubert often looked back upon the chateau, in the plain be-low; tender images crowded to his mind; his melancholy imaginationsuggested that he should return no more; and though he checked thiswandering thought, still he continued to look, till the haziness of dis-tance blended his home with the general landscape, and St. Aubertseemed to

Drag at each remove a lengthening chain.

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He and Emily continued sunk in musing silence for some leagues,from which melancholy reverie Emily first awoke, and her young fancy,struck with the grandeur of the objects around, gradually yielded to de-lightful impressions. The road now descended into glens, confined by

stupendous walls of rock, grey and barren, except where shrubs fringedtheir summits, or patches of meagre vegetation tinted their recesses, inwhich the wild goat was frequently browsing. And now, the way led tothe lofty cliffs, from whence the landscape was seen extending in all itsmagnificence.

Emily could not restrain her transport as she looked over the pineforests of the mountains upon the vast plains, that, enriched with woods,towns, blushing vines, and plantations of almonds, palms, and olives,stretched along, till their various colours melted in distance into one har-

monious hue, that seemed to unite earth with heaven. Through thewhole of this glorious scene the majestic Garonne wandered; descendingfrom its source among the Pyrenees, and winding its blue waves towardsthe Bay of Biscay.

The ruggedness of the unfrequented road often obliged the wanderersto alight from their little carriage, but they thought themselves amply re-paid for this inconvenience by the grandeur of the scenes; and, while themuleteer led his animals slowly over the broken ground, the travellershad leisure to linger amid these solitudes, and to indulge the sublime re-

flections, which soften, while they elevate, the heart, and fill it with thecertainty of a present God! Still the enjoyment of St. Aubert was touchedwith that pensive melancholy, which gives to every object a mellowertint, and breathes a sacred charm over all around.

They had provided against part of the evil to be encountered from awant of convenient inns, by carrying a stock of provisions in the carriage,so that they might take refreshment on any pleasant spot, in the open air,and pass the nights wherever they should happen to meet with a com-fortable cottage. For the mind, also, they had provided, by a work on

botany, written by M. Barreaux, and by several of the Latin and Italianpoets; while Emily's pencil enabled her to preserve some of those com-

binations of forms, which charmed her at every step.The loneliness of the road, where, only now and then, a peasant was

seen driving his mule, or some mountaineer-children at play among therocks, heightened the effect of the scenery. St. Aubert was so muchstruck with it, that he determined, if he could hear of a road, to penetratefurther among the mountains, and, bending his way rather more to the

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south, to emerge into Rousillon, and coast the Mediterranean along partof that country to Languedoc.

Soon after mid-day, they reached the summit of one of those cliffs,which, bright with the verdure of palm-trees, adorn, like gems, the tre-

mendous walls of the rocks, and which overlooked the greater part ofGascony, and part of Languedoc. Here was shade, and the fresh water ofa spring, that, gliding among the turf, under the trees, thence precipit-ated itself from rock to rock, till its dashing murmurs were lost in theabyss, though its white foam was long seen amid the darkness of thepines below.

This was a spot well suited for rest, and the travellers alighted to dine,while the mules were unharnessed to browse on the savoury herbs thatenriched this summit.

It was some time before St. Aubert or Emily could withdraw their at-tention from the surrounding objects, so as to partake of their little re-past. Seated in the shade of the palms, St. Aubert pointed out to her ob-servation the course of the rivers, the situation of great towns, and the

boundaries of provinces, which science, rather than the eye, enabled himto describe. Notwithstanding this occupation, when he had talked awhilehe suddenly became silent, thoughtful, and tears often swelled to hiseyes, which Emily observed, and the sympathy of her own heart told hertheir cause. The scene before them bore some resemblance, though it was

on a much grander scale, to a favourite one of the late Madame St.Aubert, within view of the fishing-house. They both observed this, andthought how delighted she would have been with the present landscape,while they knew that her eyes must never, never more open upon thisworld. St. Aubert remembered the last time of his visiting that spot incompany with her, and also the mournfully presaging thoughts whichhad then arisen in his mind, and were now, even thus soon, realized! Therecollections subdued him, and he abruptly rose from his seat, andwalked away to where no eye could observe his grief.

When he returned, his countenance had recovered its usual serenity;he took Emily's hand, pressed it affectionately, without speaking, andsoon after called to the muleteer, who sat at a little distance, concerning aroad among the mountains towards Rousillon. Michael said, there wereseveral that way, but he did not know how far they extended, or evenwhether they were passable; and St. Aubert, who did not intend to travelafter sun-set, asked what village they could reach about that time. Themuleteer calculated that they could easily reach Mateau, which was intheir present road; but that, if they took a road that sloped more to the

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south, towards Rousillon, there was a hamlet, which he thought theycould gain before the evening shut in.

St. Aubert, after some hesitation, determined to take the latter course,and Michael, having finished his meal, and harnessed his mules, again

set forward, but soon stopped; and St. Aubert saw him doing homage toa cross, that stood on a rock impending over their way. Having con-cluded his devotions, he smacked his whip in the air, and, in spite of therough road, and the pain of his poor mules, which he had been latelylamenting, rattled, in a full gallop, along the edge of a precipice, which itmade the eye dizzy to look down. Emily was terrified almost to fainting;and St. Aubert, apprehending still greater danger from suddenly stop-ping the driver, was compelled to sit quietly, and trust his fate to thestrength and discretion of the mules, who seemed to possess a greater

portion of the latter quality than their master; for they carried the travel-lers safely into the valley, and there stopped upon the brink of the rivuletthat watered it.

Leaving the splendour of extensive prospects, they now entered thisnarrow valley screened by

Rocks on rocks piled, as if by magic spell, Here scorch'd by lightnings,there with ivy green.

The scene of barrenness was here and there interrupted by the spread-ing branches of the larch and cedar, which threw their gloom over the

cliff, or athwart the torrent that rolled in the vale. No living creature ap-peared, except the izard, scrambling among the rocks, and often hangingupon points so dangerous, that fancy shrunk from the view of them. Thiswas such a scene as SALVATOR would have chosen, had he then exis-ted, for his canvas; St. Aubert, impressed by the romantic character of theplace, almost expected to see banditti start from behind some projectingrock, and he kept his hand upon the arms with which he alwaystravelled.

As they advanced, the valley opened; its savage features graduallysoftened, and, towards evening, they were among heathy mountains,stretched in far perspective, along which the solitary sheep-bell washeard, and the voice of the shepherd calling his wandering flocks to thenightly fold. His cabin, partly shadowed by the cork-tree and the ilex,which St. Aubert observed to flourish in higher regions of the air thanany other trees, except the fir, was all the human habitation that yet ap-peared. Along the bottom of this valley the most vivid verdure wasspread; and, in the little hollow recesses of the mountains, under theshade of the oak and chestnut, herds of cattle were grazing. Groups of

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them, too, were often seen reposing on the banks of the rivulet, or lavingtheir sides in the cool stream, and sipping its wave.

The sun was now setting upon the valley; its last light gleamed uponthe water, and heightened the rich yellow and purple tints of the heath

and broom, that overspread the mountains. St. Aubert enquired of Mi-chael the distance to the hamlet he had mentioned, but the man couldnot with certainty tell; and Emily began to fear that he had mistaken theroad. Here was no human being to assist, or direct them; they had leftthe shepherd and his cabin far behind, and the scene became so obscuredin twilight, that the eye could not follow the distant perspective of thevalley in search of a cottage, or a hamlet. A glow of the horizon stillmarked the west, and this was of some little use to the travellers. Michaelseemed endeavouring to keep up his courage by singing; his music,

however, was not of a kind to disperse melancholy; he sung, in a sort ofchant, one of the most dismal ditties his present auditors had ever heard,and St. Aubert at length discovered it to be a vesper-hymn to his favour-ite saint.

They travelled on, sunk in that thoughtful melancholy, with whichtwilight and solitude impress the mind. Michael had now ended hisditty, and nothing was heard but the drowsy murmur of the breezeamong the woods, and its light flutter, as it blew freshly into the car-riage. They were at length roused by the sound of fire-arms. St. Aubert

called to the muleteer to stop, and they listened. The noise was not re-peated; but presently they heard a rustling among the brakes. St. Aubertdrew forth a pistol, and ordered Michael to proceed as fast as possible;who had not long obeyed, before a horn sounded, that made the moun-tains ring. He looked again from the window, and then saw a youngman spring from the bushes into the road, followed by a couple of dogs.The stranger was in a hunter's dress. His gun was slung across hisshoulders, the hunter's horn hung from his belt, and in his hand was asmall pike, which, as he held it, added to the manly grace of his figure,and assisted the agility of his steps.

After a moment's hesitation, St. Aubert again stopped the carriage, andwaited till he came up, that they might enquire concerning the hamletthey were in search of. The stranger informed him, that it was only half aleague distant, that he was going thither himself, and would readilyshew the way. St. Aubert thanked him for the offer, and, pleased with hischevalier-like air and open countenance, asked him to take a seat in thecarriage; which the stranger, with an acknowledgment, declined, addingthat he would keep pace with the mules. 'But I fear you will be

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wretchedly accommodated,' said he: 'the inhabitants of these mountainsare a simple people, who are not only without the luxuries of life, but al-most destitute of what in other places are held to be its necessaries.'

'I perceive you are not one of its inhabitants, sir,' said St. Aubert.

'No, sir, I am only a wanderer here.'The carriage drove on, and the increasing dusk made the travellers

very thankful that they had a guide; the frequent glens, too, that nowopened among the mountains, would likewise have added to their per-plexity. Emily, as she looked up one of these, saw something at a greatdistance like a bright cloud in the air. 'What light is yonder, sir?' said she.

St. Aubert looked, and perceived that it was the snowy summit of amountain, so much higher than any around it, that it still reflected thesun's rays, while those below lay in deep shade.

At length, the village lights were seen to twinkle through the dusk,and, soon after, some cottages were discovered in the valley, or ratherwere seen by reflection in the stream, on whose margin they stood, andwhich still gleamed with the evening light.

The stranger now came up, and St. Aubert, on further enquiry, foundnot only that there was no inn in the place, but not any sort of house ofpublic reception. The stranger, however, offered to walk on, and enquirefor a cottage to accommodate them; for which further civility St. Aubertreturned his thanks, and said, that, as the village was so near, he would

alight, and walk with him. Emily followed slowly in the carriage.On the way, St. Aubert asked his companion what success he had had

in the chase. 'Not much, sir,' he replied, 'nor do I aim at it. I am pleasedwith the country, and mean to saunter away a few weeks among itsscenes. My dogs I take with me more for companionship than for game.This dress, too, gives me an ostensible business, and procures me that re-spect from the people, which would, perhaps, be refused to a lonelystranger, who had no visible motive for coming among them.'

'I admire your taste,' said St. Aubert, 'and, if I was a younger man,should like to pass a few weeks in your way exceedingly. I, too, am awanderer, but neither my plan nor pursuits are exactly like yours I goin search of health, as much as of amusement.' St. Aubert sighed, andpaused; and then, seeming to recollect himself, he resumed: 'If I can hearof a tolerable road, that shall afford decent accommodation, it is my in-tention to pass into Rousillon, and along the sea-shore to Languedoc.You, sir, seem to be acquainted with the country, and can, perhaps, giveme information on the subject.'

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The stranger said, that what information he could give was entirely athis service; and then mentioned a road rather more to the east, which ledto a town, whence it would be easy to proceed into Rousillon.

They now arrived at the village, and commenced their search for a cot-

tage, that would afford a night's lodging. In several, which they entered,ignorance, poverty, and mirth seemed equally to prevail; and the ownerseyed St. Aubert with a mixture of curiosity and timidity. Nothing like a

bed could be found, and he had ceased to enquire for one, when Emilyjoined him, who observed the languor of her father's countenance, andlamented, that he had taken a road so ill provided with the comforts ne-cessary for an invalid. Other cottages, which they examined, seemedsomewhat less savage than the former, consisting of two rooms, if suchthey could be called; the first of these occupied by mules and pigs, the

second by the family, which generally consisted of six or eight children,with their parents, who slept on beds of skins and dried beech leaves,spread upon a mud floor. Here, light was admitted, and smoke dis-charged, through an aperture in the roof; and here the scent of spirits (forthe travelling smugglers, who haunted the Pyrenees, had made this rudepeople familiar with the use of liquors) was generally perceptibleenough. Emily turned from such scenes, and looked at her father withanxious tenderness, which the young stranger seemed to observe; for,drawing St. Aubert aside, he made him an offer of his own bed. 'It is a

decent one,' said he, 'when compared with what we have just seen, yetsuch as in other circumstances I should be ashamed to offer you.' St.Aubert acknowledged how much he felt himself obliged by this kind-ness, but refused to accept it, till the young stranger would take no deni-al. 'Do not give me the pain of knowing, sir,' said he, 'that an invalid, likeyou, lies on hard skins, while I sleep in a bed. Besides, sir, your refusalwounds my pride; I must believe you think my offer unworthy your ac-ceptance. Let me shew you the way. I have no doubt my landlady can ac-commodate this young lady also.'

St. Aubert at length consented, that, if this could be done, he would ac-cept his kindness, though he felt rather surprised, that the stranger hadproved himself so deficient in gallantry, as to administer to the repose ofan infirm man, rather than to that of a very lovely young woman, for hehad not once offered the room for Emily. But she thought not of herself,and the animated smile she gave him, told how much she felt herself ob-liged for the preference of her father.

On their way, the stranger, whose name was Valancourt, stepped onfirst to speak to his hostess, and she came out to welcome St. Aubert into

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a cottage, much superior to any he had seen. This good woman seemedvery willing to accommodate the strangers, who were soon compelled toaccept the only two beds in the place. Eggs and milk were the only foodthe cottage afforded; but against scarcity of provisions St. Aubert had

provided, and he requested Valancourt to stay, and partake with him ofless homely fare; an invitation, which was readily accepted, and theypassed an hour in intelligent conversation. St. Aubert was much pleasedwith the manly frankness, simplicity, and keen susceptibility to thegrandeur of nature, which his new acquaintance discovered; and, in-deed, he had often been heard to say, that, without a certain simplicity ofheart, this taste could not exist in any strong degree.

The conversation was interrupted by a violent uproar without, inwhich the voice of the muleteer was heard above every other sound.

Valancourt started from his seat, and went to enquire the occasion; butthe dispute continued so long afterwards, that St. Aubert went himself,and found Michael quarrelling with the hostess, because she had refusedto let his mules lie in a little room where he and three of her sons were topass the night. The place was wretched enough, but there was no otherfor these people to sleep in; and, with somewhat more of delicacy thanwas usual among the inhabitants of this wild tract of country, she per-sisted in refusing to let the animals have the same BED-CHAMBER withher children. This was a tender point with the muleteer; his honour was

wounded when his mules were treated with disrespect, and he wouldhave received a blow, perhaps, with more meekness. He declared thathis beasts were as honest beasts, and as good beasts, as any in the wholeprovince; and that they had a right to be well treated wherever theywent. 'They are as harmless as lambs,' said he, 'if people don't affrontthem. I never knew them behave themselves amiss above once or twicein my life, and then they had good reason for doing so. Once, indeed,they kicked at a boy's leg that lay asleep in the stable, and broke it; but Itold them they were out there, and by St. Anthony! I believe they under-stood me, for they never did so again.'

He concluded this eloquent harangue with protesting, that theyshould share with him, go where he would.

The dispute was at length settled by Valancourt, who drew the hostessaside, and desired she would let the muleteer and his beasts have theplace in question to themselves, while her sons should have the bed ofskins designed for him, for that he would wrap himself in his cloak, andsleep on the bench by the cottage door. But this she thought it her dutyto oppose, and she felt it to be her inclination to disappoint the muleteer.

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Valancourt, however, was positive, and the tedious affair was at lengthsettled.

It was late when St. Aubert and Emily retired to their rooms, andValancourt to his station at the door, which, at this mild season, he pre-

ferred to a close cabin and a bed of skins. St. Aubert was somewhat sur-prised to find in his room volumes of Homer, Horace, and Petrarch; butthe name of Valancourt, written in them, told him to whom they

belonged.

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Chapter4In truth he was a strange and wayward wight, Fond of eachgentle, and each dreadful scene, In darkness, and in storm hefound delight; Nor less than when on ocean-wave serene The

southern sun diffus'd his dazzling sheen. Even sad vicissitudeamus'd his soul; And if a sigh would sometimes intervene, Anddown his cheek a tear of pity roll, A sigh, a tear, so sweet, hewish'd not to controul.THE MINSTREL

St. Aubert awoke at an early hour, refreshed by sleep, and desirous toset forward. He invited the stranger to breakfast with him; and, talkingagain of the road, Valancourt said, that, some months past, he had trav-

elled as far as Beaujeu, which was a town of some consequence on theway to Rousillon. He recommended it to St. Aubert to take that route,and the latter determined to do so.

'The road from this hamlet,' said Valancourt, 'and that to Beaujeu, partat the distance of about a league and a half from hence; if you will giveme leave, I will direct your muleteer so far. I must wander somewhere,and your company would make this a pleasanter ramble than any other Icould take.'

St. Aubert thankfully accepted his offer, and they set out together, the

young stranger on foot, for he refused the invitation of St. Aubert to takea seat in his little carriage.

The road wound along the feet of the mountains through a pastoralvalley, bright with verdure, and varied with groves of dwarf oak, beechand sycamore, under whose branches herds of cattle reposed. Themountain-ash too, and the weeping birch, often threw their pendant fo-liage over the steeps above, where the scanty soil scarcely concealed theirroots, and where their light branches waved to every breeze thatfluttered from the mountains.

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The travellers were frequently met at this early hour, for the sun hadnot yet risen upon the valley, by shepherds driving immense flocks fromtheir folds to feed upon the hills. St. Aubert had set out thus early, notonly that he might enjoy the first appearance of sunrise, but that he

might inhale the first pure breath of morning, which above all things isrefreshing to the spirits of the invalid. In these regions it was particularlyso, where an abundance of wild flowers and aromatic herbs breathedforth their essence on the air.

The dawn, which softened the scenery with its peculiar grey tint, nowdispersed, and Emily watched the progress of the day, first tr

ann radcliffe - the mysteries of udolpho

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